


What's in a Name?

by Leah



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Blowjobs, High School, M/M, also, and john is not a doctor, basically john is dean winchester, in which sherlock is not yet a genius, not really but kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 10:04:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leah/pseuds/Leah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is the new kid at school. Sherlock is the poor victim of big-time bully, Greg Lestrade. John is more than happy to atone for Greg's mistakes, if only Sherlock will let him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's in a Name?

**Author's Note:**

> Seeing as I am American, and have absolutely no reference for British schools or British teen-hood, this is most likely taking place in America. Or very Americanized Britain. Whatever floats your boat. That means, when I reference "football", I don't mean soccer. soRRY. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)

Lockers slam, as people rush towards the exit of the school, banging on the glass doors on their way out. Sherlock takes his time, though, rifling through his papers and books and trying to do his best to block out the rest of the school body. 

He hears the obnoxious noise of the football team making their way down the mostly empty hallway, pushing each other as they playfully assert their dominance. Sherlock attempts to make himself invisible by flipping up the collar on his plaid coat, but Greg Lestrade, his tormenter since the previous school year, doesn’t fail to notice Sherlock’s lanky frame cowering in the door of his locker. 

“Hey, Freak,” Greg taunts, shoving Sherlock into the locker. The metal corner smacks Sherlock just above the eyebrow, releasing a slow trickle of blood into his eye. “Have a good first day?”

Greg and his friends laugh as they walk away, and Sherlock notices one trailing behind slightly. Sherlock hasn’t had a day of peace since the final one of his eighth grade year. With high school came Greg and never ending torture. “The first fucking day,” Sherlock mutters to himself, shoving books violently into his backpack. 

“I’m sorry,” the trailing jerk mumbles, looking at Sherlock’s feet. Sherlock doesn’t recognize his small frame out of the corner of his eye.

Sherlock twists on his heel, slamming his locker and looking the unfamiliar guy over. He has messy blond hair and puppy dog eyes, which almost make Sherlock bite his tongue. But, when he gets a glance at the brand new letterman jacket on his shoulders, Sherlock can’t help himself.

“No. No, you’re not,” he snaps, shouldering past the boy. “By tomorrow, it’ll probably be you shoving me into the locker. And, if it’s not me, it’ll be some other poor sap, so don’t even try.”

“I won’t. I won’t do that. Not to you, not to anyone,” he insists, keeping in stride with Sherlock. Sherlock just snorts, rolling his eyes. “I mean it.”

“You mean it,” Sherlock concedes, “right _now_.” 

“I mean it for always.”

The new boy looks serious, his eyebrows scrunching in the middle, like he’s trying to think of some way to convince the other boy of his honesty. He doesn’t come up with anything, though, so, instead, he jogs ahead and pushes the door open for him. 

“Thanks,” Sherlock mutters, running his hand through his dark curls as he wraps a scarf around his neck, trying to block as much of the biting air as he possibly can. He is mildly annoyed that this new dick won’t let him leave in peace.

“No problem,” he answers, skipping down the stairs beside Sherlock. “What’s your name, anyway? I’m pretty sure it’s not ‘freak’, is it?”

“That’s probably the only name you’ll hear,” Sherlock shoots back, grimacing. “Doesn’t mean I can’t know yours, though.”

“I’m John Watson,” he says, sticking his hand out and grinning. Sherlock takes it lightly, shaking it for a second before stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I will find your name out one way or another, don’t you worry, but, right now, I need to get home or my mum will murder me. First day at a new school, and I’m late. I’ll never hear the end of this.” John winks, sauntering towards the parking lot, where his muscle car is waiting.

Sherlock makes a noise of agreement in the back of his throat, against his will, but he can’t help but watch John’s receding figure before turning on his heel.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

It’s been two weeks since the beginning of the school year, and Sherlock has been shoved into innumerable lockers, four trash cans, six water fountains, and had eight lunch trays knocked onto his clean clothes. However, John has yet to cross over to the dark side, still helping pick Sherlock up once and a while, murmuring rarely overheard apologies, before scurrying off to his pack of animalistic friends. 

Now, Sherlock is sitting in the library, picking at the freshest bandage on his high cheekbone, trying to commit the information in his Biology textbook to memory. No matter how quickly he can pick up mathematical concepts, literary theories, or art techniques, Biology is the thorn in his side, never quite sticking around long enough to be useful. 

He lets out a frustrated groan, tugging on his messy curls before curling over the small print again. Someone clears his throat over Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock ignores it, until John pulls the chair out from beside Sherlock, looking at the page. 

“Do you want some help?” he asks, twisting the half-filled worksheet towards him after giving the mysterious boy a good once-over.

“Why aren’t you with your friends?” Sherlock asks, skeptically tapping his pen against the swell of the page.

John just laughs, reading the questions on the sheet of paper. “Those guys aren’t my friends.”

“You spend enough time with them,” Sherlock counters, taking the worksheet. He slips it into his book before pushing the book away. “You must like them at least a little.”

“Sure, I like ‘em,” John answers, eyeing the Biology book. “But that doesn’t mean they’re my friends.”

“Who are your friends, then?” Sherlock asks, ripping a page out of his notebook and beginning a doodle. 

“I dunno,” John shrugs, squinting his eyes as he chuckles. Sherlock can’t figure out why it twists his stomach so much. “You doing anything tonight?”

“No. I never do anything,” Sherlock mumbles, laughing quietly to himself as he watches his pen create another messy drawing. 

“Unless you count homework, that is.”

“I think you should come to the game,” John suggests, hoping his voice doesn’t shake as much as it did when he practiced in front of the bathroom mirror. Even if it did, Sherlock wouldn’t have cared. “It’ll be really cool, and we can, I dunno, hang out after, if you want. It’s cool if you don’t, though.”

“I don’t ‘get’ sports,” Sherlock mumbles, trying to figure the probability of this being a sick joke. His heart flutters, though, at the thought of someone _wanting_ to be his _friend_. He can feel his cheeks flush, but he hopes the large bandage will offset the redness. 

“That’s okay, it’s more of an, I dunno, atmospheric thing. But if you don’t wanna come, that’s cool. I don’t mind. It was a dumb idea,” John replies, his cheeks burning as he cracks his knuckles in a nervous habit. 

Suddenly, Sherlock’s stomach lurches, as he realizes he’s _messing this up_. He scoots closer to John, a small smile playing on his lips. “No, no!” he nearly cries, quickly hushing his voice, as the librarian shoots him a look. “No, I’ll come. I haven’t been out in ages.”

John swears his cheeks might split open if he smiles any harder, and he lets out a high pitched giggle. “You will?”

“Sure, I will,” Sherlock chuckles, leaning forward on his elbows. 

“Do you wanna hang out after?” John pushes, leaning forward as well, trying not to sound too desperate. “I mean, we’re probably not going to win, so there won’t be a big celebration or anythin’.”

“Yeah,” Sherlock agrees, cursing himself for answering too quickly. He clears his throat. “No, yeah, that’d be cool.” Sherlock grins, and John can’t help but smile back.

“Well, cool,” John murmurs, pulling back a little. “The game starts at five thirty. If you sit in the front row, I’ll talk to you during half time and get you afterwards, and everythin’.” Sherlock just nods, smiling even harder.

“I’ll be there, John,” Sherlock replies, bumping John’s extended fist before watching him walk away.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Sherlock may not understand the game, but he knows to yell with the crowd, cheer loudest when number forty-three has the ball, and smile brightest when John turns from the sidelines to give him a thumbs-up. Two quarters pass, and Sherlock’s home team is up by four. 

“Maybe there will be a big celebration, after all,” John shouts over the din of voices, standing on tiptoes as Sherlock leans over the railing. “We don’t have to go, though.”

“If you wanna go, I wanna go,” Sherlock yells back, grinning even as Greg passes by, shouting insults over John’s head.   
John just shrugs, as he gestures to the rest of the team, filing into the locker room under the stands. Sherlock waves as he pulls himself back over the cold metal rail. The people around him chatter away, but he can’t wait until the game begins again.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

When John makes the final point, securing the Wildcats’ victory, people storm out of the stands, overrunning the field, as John is hoisted up on the scarlet-clad shoulders of his teammates and jostled about, in good humor. Sherlock doesn’t hesitate in joining the other students, leaping over the metal rail, landing neatly on his feet. Once secured on the grass, though, he doesn’t know where to go, so he just hangs lamely around the cement wall, waiting for John.

Unfortunately, Greg finds him first, shoving him against the wall. Sherlock’s bare arms scrape against the roughness, and he lets out a grunt, half of surprise and half of pain. 

“Did the little freak enjoy the game?” Greg snarls, kicking out Sherlock’s knees. Sherlock just lets himself fall to the ground, curling around his soft stomach, as Greg’s friends laugh, lashing out at the tightly packed Sherlock with their feet. “Huh? Had to come alone since no one likes you? Because you’re too weird?” 

Sherlock just tucks his head closer to his chest, trying to block out the sound of Greg’s taunting voice. After a few more minutes, Sherlock hears John, clearing his throat. Greg turns around, grinning like an idiot. 

“Come to join the fun, John?” he asks, clapping John on the shoulder. “Want to join in finally, poking at the freak?”

Honestly, Sherlock wouldn’t have blamed John if he had started in on him, too. But, surprisingly, John doesn’t bed his foot in Sherlock’s side. Instead, he squares up to Greg, despite Greg having a good four inches on him. “Stop this,” he says so quietly, it’s almost inaudible. “Stop this right now.”

“Oh, are you in love with the freak now, Johnny boy?” Greg cackles, trying his idiotic best to diffuse the situation. 

“Don’t call him that, Greg,” John answers, ignoring his question. Sherlock begins uncurling, staring at John with wide eyes. Most of the people around them have cleared out of the field, leaving it eerily quiet. 

“What should I call him, then? What _is_ his name?”

“I, uh, I-“

“That’s what I thought, John,” Greg sneers. “Even you don’t know him. You can talk all you want, but, in the end, he’s still just the loner freak who nobody likes.” With that, Greg winks and disappears into the locker room with his cronies. 

Sherlock pushes himself off the damp ground, realizing the truth in Greg’s statements. He begins to shuffle away, figuring John had the same revelation. He’s stopped by John’s hand, tugging on his wrist. John slides down the wall, dragging Sherlock with him. “You okay?” he asks.

“You played fantastically,” Sherlock murmurs, completely ignoring John. “Really something spectacular. I haven’t had this much fun in a long time, John.”

Sherlock rolls his head towards John, smiling, even though the cut on his eyebrow from the first day has begun bleeding once again. John’s eyebrows scrunch together again as he reaches over, wiping away the trickle of red before it enters Sherlock’s line of vision. 

“You shouldn’t have to do this,” he mumbles, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t have to be afraid to tell me your name. You shouldn’t be alone all the time. You shouldn’t have to pretend you don’t get hurt, hell, you shouldn’t even get hurt in the first place. But I can’t help unless you _let_ me.”

“I don’t really want to talk about it, John,” Sherlock murmurs, switching his focus from John’s concerned face to the starry sky above. “I’ve survived for the past year alone. I figure he’ll lose interest in me, eventually.”

“If you say so,” John replies, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder before shuffling into the locker room. “Meet me out by the gate, okay?”

Sherlock just nods, grinning as he pushes himself up. 

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Fifteen minutes later, after a quick beat-down that Sherlock decides to keep secret; Sherlock and John are barreling down the road, towards John’s house, making idle chit-chat. Sherlock stares out the window, feeling completely content for once. His mind is spinning in circles, trying to think of something witty to say, even though he’s never once cared what he said to anyone before.

John coasts into the garage of a medium sized house, where all the windows are dark and the door is probably locked. “Well, this is it,” John announces quietly, so as to avoid waking anyone in the house. He leads Sherlock up a flight of carpeted stairs, leaving him in the hallway momentarily to tell alert his parents of his arrival. They continue down the hall to John’s room, covered, surprisingly, not with sports stars, but musicians. He has a large bed shoved in one corner with a bookshelf right next to it, filled half with books and half with records. 

On the wall towards the foot of his bed, a television screen is mounted to the wall. A desk, cluttered with papers and books, is under the television, to the right a little bit. John drops his sports bag on the chair of the desk, spreading his arms and spinning around. 

“You like Led Zeppelin?” Sherlock asks, gesturing the poster beside the door.

“Uh, yeah,” John answers, rifling through the dresser on the opposite side of the door. He pulls out two pairs of plaid pajamas, tossing one to Sherlock. “They’re basically the best thing that’s ever happened to music, in my own opinion.”

John slips his shirt over his head, turning away from Sherlock as he undoes his pants and slips them off. Sherlock marvels at the way his muscles look, rippling with the effort of keeping balanced, before turning away and also undoing his. He doesn’t notice John’s slight intake of breath when he catches Sherlock halfway through changing. 

Sherlock decides to leave his raggedy tee-shirt on, as he climbs onto John’s bed, leaning his back against the headboard, while   
John grabs a travel case of DVDs out of his desk. “You can pick what you want, I’ll go make some popcorn,” he nearly giggles, tossing the case on the bed. 

Sherlock flips through mindlessly, looking for the most generically ‘masculine’ disc in the bunch. He settles on Die Hard, plopping it into the player before settling against the headboard of John’s large bed. The title menu plays through four times before John returns, holding a single bowl heaped with popcorn. 

Sherlock grins, snatching it away as John pushes play.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

The credits roll as Sherlock’s eyes drift open again. John snuffles in his sleep, curling on his side, facing Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes roam quickly over John’s body, pausing on his peaceful face. Sherlock hadn’t realized how stressed John looks at school, his eyebrows scrunched in the middle, his mouth a tight line, until now, when John’s face is completely relaxed. Quietly dropping the empty plastic bowl on the ground, Sherlock realizes he doesn’t know where to sleep. He doesn’t want to wake John up; that’s rude. But he also doesn’t know how “weird” it would be to just sleep in his bed.

Sherlock hasn’t had a friend for two years.

He doesn’t want to mess this up.

Sherlock feels a vague pang of unease as his head drops onto John’s pillow, anyway. He presses his back against the rough wall, trying to maximize the space between himself and John, and drifts into a peaceful slumber to the sound of John’s even breathing. 

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

John awakens to a slight shifting against his stomach, which, when John finally slides his eyes open, turns out to be Sherlock trying to stealthily wiggle out from underneath John. He grumbles his apologies, rolling onto his back. Sherlock scoots an adequate distance away, willing images of his grandmother and starving children into his mind in an effort to relieve himself of the tent in his pajamas. 

John pretends not to notice, opting instead to roll out of the bed and rifle through his dresser until Sherlock sits up, stretching his arms. Turning around to suggest breakfast, John is momentarily distracted by the band of skin running just under Sherlock’s black t-shirt. 

“Sleep well, I hope?” John asks, smirking for lack of an idea what to do instead.

“Yeah,” Sherlock mumbles, looking out the window so as to not outwardly stare at John’s bare chest. He _really_ doesn’t want to mess this up. “I hope you don’t mind,” Sherlock gestures to the bed, “I just didn’t want to wake you, you know?”

“That’s fine, really,” John laughs, tugging a pair of jeans out of his dresser. “Really, really fine.”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

A week comes and goes, Sherlock is pushed about, shoved into lockers, kicked behind the school; but all of these incidents are only finished when John picks him up, wiping off any dirt or blood as he whispers apologies and threats against the other football players.

Sherlock is sure John could easily figure out his name, if he asked any of his teachers, but he also knows John wants to find out on his own. He wants Sherlock to tell him, but they both know Sherlock won’t. 

But Sherlock’s never been happier, seeing as someone actually wants to know his name in the first place. 

After the second football win of the season, Sherlock finds himself pressed into a booth in the local diner with John beside him. Across the plastic table, one of the more mild-mannered football players sits.

“That was brilliant, John,” Mark, number seventy-two, sighs, shoving a few more fries into his mouth. “Absolutely brilliant.”  
John just shrugs, smiling at Sherlock as he scoots almost imperceptibly closer. “Thanks, Mark. It’s not that great, though. Honestly.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s not that great that you have almost singlehandedly won both games this season, John,” Sherlock snorts, proud of himself for actually speaking. His stomach seems to be protesting against it, though, so Sherlock takes a quick sip of his soda.   
John laughs and shoulders Sherlock against the table, lightheartedly. 

Mark catches the message and wipes his hands on his pants, scooting out of the booth. “I’ll see you guys around,” he winks.   
“You two be safe. Don’t go too crazy!” Mark laughs as he shuffles into another group of boys. 

“’Don’t go too crazy’?” Sherlock asks. “Are we going to go crazy at all? I don’t think I know how to!” John laughs with Sherlock, bumping his knee against the other boy’s as he observes the crinkles by Sherlock’s eyes, noting them in the back of his mind for later use.

“Going crazy is easy with the right people,” John answers, leaning his elbow on the table so all he can see is Sherlock. “But, typically, you need to be on a first name basis to do it.” John winks, knowing it won’t work, but trying anyway.

Sherlock snorts, rolling his eyes and sipping his soda. “I guess we’ll have to do without,” Sherlock murmurs, leaning his elbow on the table in a mirror image of John. He looks into John’s deep green eyes for a long moment, watching the wheels turn as a thought formulates in John’s head. Sherlock leans closer, snagging a fry from John’s plate.

“Why?” John whispers, looking past Sherlock’s shoulder, through the window, because he’s not sure if he can look at Sherlock without wanting to scream or cry or punch Greg in the face.

Sherlock notes John’s shaking hands, going against his logical brain and running his fingers quickly up John’s forearm. As he pulls his fingers away, they brush John’s face lightly. “Why what, John?” he whispers back, scooting until his leg is pressed against John’s.

“Why won’t you tell me your name?” John answers, swirling his finger against the plastic table. “I don’t get it, I mean; clearly, I’m not ashamed of you! Why are you so _terrified_ of me?” Suddenly, John feels overcome with embarrassment, turning away from Sherlock as his cheeks flush a dark red. Sherlock feels like he’s locked in a tight space, suddenly. His chest feels tight as he realizes just how much John’s been hurting. 

Sherlock doesn’t know what to do other than lean closer to John, reaching under John’s chin and gently nudging his cheek until John turns his head. “John,” Sherlock murmurs, his stomach twisting when John jerks out of his grip.

“John and the freak sitting in a tree,” Greg sings, sliding into the booth. “K-I-S-S-I-N-G! Nah, I’m kiddin’ John, even though the freak here probably’d like it!” Greg sneers at Sherlock, kicking at him under the table. 

“Greg, not now,” John mumbles, interlocking his fingers and leaning his forehead against them. “You’ve done it all week, just give him a break. Please.”

“I don’t get you, John,” Greg scoffs, turning to face his fellow football player. “You hang out with him on the weekends, but I hardly see you say two words to the guy at school. I just don’t get you, man.” Greg turns back to Sherlock. “Not that I can blame him, Freak.”

With that, Greg laughs, pushing himself out of the booth. 

John twists in the booth, looking at Sherlock’s fallen face, forgetting his own frustrations at the look of worthlessness on Sherlock’s face. He’s staring at his hands, waiting for one more threat, one more horrible comment, one more reason why he should just go home. Suddenly, John feels his gut snag, and he’s leaning forward, tapping Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Hey, buddy,” John mumbles. “’S okay. ‘S okay, everything’s okay.”

“Nothing’s okay,” Sherlock grumbles back, grimacing. John finds himself tugging on Sherlock’s sleeve, pulling him out of the warm diner into the chilly autumn air. 

“Everything will be okay,” John laughs, trying to lift Sherlock’s mood as he clambers onto the hood of his car. “Eventually. Like now. Right now. Not five minutes ago, not last year; right now. This instant.”  
Sherlock joins John on the car. “It’s a bit cold,” Sherlock jokes, nudging John with his elbow. 

“You know what I mean,” John murmurs, looking at Sherlock. The light from the diner shines across the row of cars between John’s and the restaurant, filtering itself in Sherlock’s brown curls and bouncing off his brilliant eyes. “Just you and me, no Greg, no anybody. Just us.”

John’s not sure when his intention became to wrap his fingers in Sherlock’s hair; but he does it, leaning in and pulling Sherlock nearer to him. “What’re you doing?” Sherlock asks, his heart pounding due to the proximity of John’s body to his. He hopes John can’t feel it.

“Touching your hair,” John whispers, twirling his fingers in the curls at the base of Sherlock’s neck. “Is that alright?”  
Sherlock takes a deep breath to steady his voice as he wills his fingers to stop shaking. His pause breaks John’s heart, but 

Sherlock almost flinches when John begins pulling his hand away. Sherlock catches his wrist. “No, no,” Sherlock quietly replies, gazing into John’s eyes. “It’s quite alright.”

“How about this?” John asks, leaning forward before he can lose his small bit of spontaneity. He presses his lips against Sherlock’s, smirking against the sharp breath Sherlock takes in, but, then, Sherlock seems to melt against John, sloppily kissing him back. 

John leans back with a sigh, breaking the kiss and receiving a disappointed whine from Sherlock. John cradles Sherlock’s thin face in his hands, leaning his forehead against Sherlock’s, suddenly feeling the missing spot in his mind where Sherlock’s name should fit. 

“You’re just really fucking _important_ to me,” John whispers, placing soft kisses on Sherlock’s cheeks. “And I don’t even know your _name_.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, smiling when John kisses his eyelids. “You’re going to regret this tomorrow,” Sherlock murmurs, basking in the warm glow of attention, even if it’ll only last a short time. 

“I won’t regret something I’ve wanted to do since I first met you,” John ghosts against Sherlock’s neck, laying on all the charm as Sherlock gasps. He needs Sherlock to feel how much he wants this. He lets his teeth drag lightly against Sherlock’s skin, relishing the way Sherlock shifts himself, widening his knees and scooting closer to John. 

“John,” Sherlock gasps as John’s fingers creep under the hem of his jacket. 

“Do you see how your lack of a name puts a damper on this?” John asks, nuzzling his nose against the smooth skin behind Sherlock’s hair. Suddenly, the door to the diner flies open, and Mark lets out a warning, “John!” before Greg and his cronies stumble out. Sherlock jerks away, sliding off the hood of the car and making his way to the passenger door. 

John does the same, shooting Mark a thumbs up before peeling out of the gravel parking lot, barreling down the road towards Sherlock’s small house. 

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

“We’re home, Mom,” John yells into the quiet house, dragging Sherlock behind him. “We’ll be upstairs.” His mother’s muffled reply is ignored by both boys, though Sherlock tries harder than John to hear it. 

Sherlock drops his bag on John’s familiar bed, jumping up to join it on the plain bedclothes that John seems to prefer. He unzips it, rifling about in his school work for tonight’s homework, which Sherlock’s mother kindly allowed Sherlock to do under John’s supervision, rather than, his brother, Mycroft’s. John chuckles, sliding onto the bed beside Sherlock.

“Are we really going to start so soon?” John murmurs, laying on all the charm and playfully pressing his lips to Sherlock’s shoulder as he maneuvers around, so he’s standing on his knees behind Sherlock. For a moment, Sherlock can’t remember how he got to be so lucky as to have the star football player currently worshipping all his exposed skin. 

“If I finish quickly, we can have more fun later,” Sherlock points out, twisting his neck to connect his lips with John’s in a quick kiss, before he turns back to the sheet of paper in his hand. “Besides, it’s only one bit of work, it won’t take ten minutes.”

“Then let’s have some fun _now_ ,” John whispers against Sherlock’s neck, darting his tongue out to quickly swipe against the sensitive skin. Sherlock shivers against John’s body. 

“I suppose this could wait,” Sherlock answers slowly, dumping his school supplies on the ground as he turns to face John. John cradles Sherlock’s face, giving him a long kiss, made of only lips and searching tongue skating over Sherlock’s willing mouth. Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s neck, trying to will away the sudden tightness of his pants; _they’re just kissing for God’s sake, they’re not even boyfriends, more like friends who kiss in their spare time_. He feels embarrassed at his seemingly immature lack of control he has over his own body and hopes John won’t notice. However, much to Sherlock’s dismay, John is pushing on his chest, making him lay against the pillows as John settles himself on top of Sherlock.

Sherlock feels John smirk against his lips, so Sherlock pulls away, briefly filling his mind with images of his grandmother before murmuring a quiet, “Sorry.” John just smiles, sweetly kissing Sherlock’s burning red cheeks. 

“I think it’s cute,” he murmurs, returning his attention to Sherlock’s neck while his fingers brush against Sherlock’s warm stomach. John tries to memorize the way Sherlock’s muscles move when he breathes, gasping when John playfully bites the skin   
on Sherlock’s shoulder. John pushes on the bottom of Sherlock’s shirt, asking with his eyes. Sherlock simply pulls the thin fabric over his head, loving John’s delighted smile. 

John kisses his way down Sherlock’s chest, lighting all his nerves on fire. Sherlock’s chest begins rising and falling quicker, as his breath picks up, arching off the bed when John gently nips at one of the pink nubs. 

Once again, Sherlock’s face burns with embarrassment, but John shushes him as he kisses lower, onto Sherlock’s soft stomach, lifting his eyes to once again ask silent permission. Sherlock nods, completely overloaded, as John undoes the fly on Sherlock’s pants. 

John expertly pushes both Sherlock’s pants and briefs down to his ankles, and Sherlock feels another wave of complete mortification as he realizes he is _completely naked_ in front of John. He is suddenly aware of all the ways he falls short, from his knobby knees to his too-long arms. 

“Stop thinking like that,” John murmurs, reading Sherlock’s mind as he kisses and licks his way up Sherlock’s thigh. “You’re beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”

Sherlock snorts, and John shoots him a look. Sherlock leans forward, tilting John’s chin to give him another lengthy kiss, wondering what he did in a past life to deserve this wonderful boy’s attention. John breaks the kiss, trading Sherlock’s mouth for the sensitive skin at the base of his prick. 

Sherlock forgets to breathe when John takes a tentative swipe at the leaking head of Sherlock’s prick, enjoying the bitter and salty taste of Sherlock. John licks a stripe up the length before taking the head in his mouth and sucking, ignoring the bucking of Sherlock’s hips because _ohmygod that feels great_. 

Sherlock can feel the tension building in his muscles already, and he feels ashamed and betrayed once again at the immature responses of his body. John smiles, breathing a puff of warm air out before placing delicate kisses up and down Sherlock’s cock.

“John,” Sherlock gasps, grasping at the blanket with desperate fingers. John slides up Sherlock’s body, rocking his hips against Sherlock’s. The rough denim against Sherlock’s sensitive dick almost sets him off, but John backs off. “John,” Sherlock says again, this time a whine. 

John smirks again, kissing Sherlock’s lips and running his tongue against Sherlock’s teeth. “I know what you want, don’t I?” John teases, giving Sherlock another roll of his hips. 

Sherlock nods, closing his eyes and seeing stars. 

“But you know what I want, too,” John whispers, smiling again as Sherlock realizes the trick John has played. 

“This is unfair,” Sherlock protests, his words turning into a moan as John returns the warm, wet attention of his mouth to 

Sherlock’s member. Suddenly, the heat Sherlock hadn’t quite noticed building in his stomach releases, and he lets out a whimper as his vision goes white. John sucks him through the climax, coaxing needy cries from Sherlock long after it’s passed.   
Sherlock tugs on John’s shirt, so John slides up, lying next to a suddenly sleepy Sherlock, who curls against John’s side.

“That was a mean trick you played,” Sherlock laughs, pressing a kiss to John’s jaw. 

“It didn’t work, though,” John laughs back, trying to keep the bitter disappointment out of his voice. They lay in silence for a few minutes, listening to each other breathe. 

After a moment, Sherlock nibbles John’s earlobe, whispering something. 

“What’d ya say?” John asks, roused from his sleepy state. 

“I said,” Sherlock whispers, causing John to strain his hearing. “They call me Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.”

John feels a bubble of warm happiness explode in his chest as he twists his body so he’s straddling Sherlock’s hips. He gives him   
a rough, loving kiss, holding his chin in place. 

“That’s an odd name,” he chuckles, peppering Sherlock’s neck with kisses.

“That’s it, I’m leaving,” Sherlock jokes, pretending to sit up.

“I think I can think of a few ways to make you stay,” John murmurs in Sherlock’s ear, sliding down Sherlock’s body once again to the sound of a contented giggle.


End file.
